


The Return to Hammerlocke Hall

by rowan_reign



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Crossdressing, Dom/sub, Facial Shaving, Lord Raihan, Luxury, M/M, Maid Piers, Maids, Master/Servant, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowan_reign/pseuds/rowan_reign
Summary: After a month away on business, Lord Raihan returns home to Hammerlocke Hall, and to the head maid that he’s missed rather deeply while he was away. After all, there’s no one who attends to him better.
Relationships: Kibana | Raihan/Nezu | Piers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 118





	The Return to Hammerlocke Hall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_only_Asta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_only_Asta/gifts).



> Slight warning for some mention of mild danger kink with a straight razor, though nothing actually happens. Just Raihan being a complete pervert. This work is for The_only_Asta, also at @PechaBerryCandy and @Horny_Lemon7 on Twitter if you want to check out her very fabulous artworks! As always, you can find me @rowanafterdark or @daytimerowan for more Pokemon-specific content.

The hour is late when Lord Raihan returns home, and he’s never been quite so relieved to see the grand gates swinging open before his carriage. There’s nothing humble about his abode; the phaeton’s wheels crunch across the gravel as they pull up the long drive of his estate, peacefully lined with trees and a manicured lawn behind. He might be what the older families deem ‘new money’ in the land of Galar, but his new money has the same shine to it as theirs does, and has bought him a home old and stately enough that even those with the most ancient of heritages couldn’t turn up their noses. He’s had it refurbished, of course, but Hammerlocke Hall is as old as the county itself, and even with a new facade of soaring columns and fashionable imported friezes, the stone behind is as solid now as it was over two hundred years ago.

The carriage rolls to a stop before the main entrance, and a retinue of figures in black and white uniforms all bow and curtsy in perfect synchronization as the driver opens the side door. Raihan unfolds himself and steps down calmly, his placid smile belying the utter joy he feels at finally returning home after a month of travel for business, and three days on the road besides. While there’s many a fine inn between here and Wyndon, and he’s enjoyed seeing his friends at the season’s parties and fashionable evening balls, there’s nothing quite like setting foot on his own ground to make him feel steady again. As though all of the world has finally regained its anchor, and he can come to rest. 

He looks over the assembled figures, nodding to each as he passes by. Three footmen, the stablemaster, the cook, and two maids. The footmen are triplets, and the maids are sisters—something about the idea just amused him so when it came to hiring them, and even now he appreciates the symmetry of their tiered poses on the marble steps, greeting him politely despite the onset of night. Yet it’s the figure at the top of the stairs who draws his attention like a magnet pointing north, and he allows his gaze to slip from inky polished shoes up over the stockings that nearly caused a scandal when he introduced them, to the hem of a relatively tame white apron and along the slim body to his favorite face.

His head maid, the man who keeps his house running, and without whom he’d most certainly be lost like a ship adrift at sea. 

Piers’ blue eyes meet his own with a stunning directness after the demure showing of the other servants, but Raihan would have it no other way. No, he’s almost ready to stumble into those thin arms and be hauled into bed like a drunkard, if not for the fact that he has a shred of decency to retain in front of the others. When he reaches the top step, Piers gives him a quick brief of all that has happened in his absence, which was nothing of terrible import for but the arrival of several letters and documents to be signed. His charming accent is a balm to the lord’s ears, and Raihan listens to the entire account without interrupting once. Then he turns, wishes the gathered servants a pleasant evening, and strides into his own hall.

“Ah, it’s good to be home,” Raihan says aloud the moment he’s in his drawing room, a fire lit in the hearth and casting amber warmth over the familiar furniture patterns and antique paintings that line the walls. Yes, he’s spared no expense on the trappings of this place, and he happily takes a seat in his cushioned armchair to look over it all. Without asking for it, a glass of brandy appears on the table at his side, and he hums as he picks it up to take a sip. The alcohol warms the back of his tongue and slides down into him like a promise of comfort, and the evening is well on track to being utterly perfect. 

“Your home is glad to have you back,” says Piers, and god. That voice alone is like splendidly soothing music, and now that they’re alone he has no reason to pretend otherwise. The sentiment is no small thing either, and he allows himself a smile as he leans back in his comfortable seat.

“You’ve missed me?” He knows Piers has, but he has to ask, nonetheless. Wants to hear it from his maid’s lips directly. Piers circles around until he’s standing in front of him, lit from the side by the red glow of the fire, giving a golden cast to his unusual hair. 

Raihan has always had a fascination with the strange and out-of-place, a fascination that has given rise to more than a few murmurs about him. But he’s always conducted his business with a vigorous efficiency that earned him immense enough wealth at a young enough age that he can more than indulge his proclivities without question. Including a male head maid who, even now, looks at him through a thick fringe of dark lashes with the sort of reticent happiness he’s come to expect. That expressive mouth twists, reluctant to admit, and Raihan stretches his legs out in front of him as he waits for the response. 

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks. “I...have, sire. A month is a long time.”

“That it is,” Raihan remarks. A long time to be without his maid, who attends to his every whim with a near-psychic ability, and who amuses him with his affronted pouting. The fire crackles, and he looks over Piers again, drinking in the lace headpiece fastened into his hair, the thin wrists appearing from behind neatly creased white cuffs, and the dark shades that seem to find a permanent home under those stunning eyes. “I’m sure you ran a tight ship while I was away, and everything seems to be well in place. As always, I’m pleased with you and your service.”

He doesn’t miss the faint flush that comes to Piers’ cheeks at the praise, and continues with another soft smile. “But I’ve been too long without someone to help me with my day-to-day needs. The Wyndon season was great fun, but having to undress myself every night is such a chore, and the valets they provide in hotels aren’t half as skilled as you.”

“Stop it, sire, yer flatterin’ me,” Piers says, and Raihan can’t help but snort. Only his maid would think to speak with such directness. 

“You know I’m not the type of man to give out undue praise. I always demand the best from every aspect of my life, and you’re no different.” The ice in his brandy tinkles against the glass as he lifts it again, taking a hearty swig this time. He intends to rest well tonight, but a little fire in his belly would not go amiss beforehand. “You’ve kept my estate in order while I was away, minded everything to the standard I expect, and—dammit, Piers, I’ve missed you. I have. Now come over here, I want you to finish this for me.”

His patience runs out of him mid-sentence, and his wishes change with its departure. The study is warm and on any other night he could easily have spent hours here, reading aloud to Piers or reviewing with him the shapes of letters and numbers as he learns them, but tonight he’s tired. Impatient. Seeking comfort from the one who best provides it to him, and though Piers’ face remains ever stoic and unimpressed, Raihan knows to look for the glitter in his eyes. 

He holds out the glass of brandy, and Piers’ skirts swish as he steps across the carpet to take it obediently. He drains it like a sailor, gripping the rim with one hand and knocking it back in a long swallow, throat working under the lace ruff of his dress collar. When he sets it down again, his lips have gone shiny and his eyes are wide and dark; the clock chimes, and Raihan stands. “I’d like to have a bath before I go to bed. Draw one and attend me.”

Piers automatically drops into another curtsy, pulling his skirt and apron out at the sides and tucking one foot neatly in front of the other. “As milord wishes.” Raihan can remember when Piers used to falter in that gesture, legs trembling, and thinks back to the time he spied him in the empty drawing room, practicing the motion again and again. Piers had stumbled and cursed quietly to the furniture, but always picked himself up for another try, and Raihan had stood there for half an hour just to watch until the other servants came calling after him to find out what was to be requested for dinner.

Now Piers moves with an effortless, almost feline grace, and Raihan doesn’t deny himself the pleasure of watching those slender legs move beneath the heavy fabric of the long skirt as he follows after his maid. He’s come a long way from the foul-mouthed, skin-and-bones street urchin that Raihan hired on one of his famous whims, and he couldn’t be more proud of Piers’ progress. Even if his mouth is still enough to turn a dock worker’s hair white.

They climb the stairs by the light of Piers’ candle, and Raihan fills the silence with aimless chatter about his trip, and the Wyndon season. His friends and their follies, the things he’s seen, the parties he went to. It’s comfortable to share all this with Piers; he isn’t the type of man to be a terrible gossip, and even if he did, nothing Raihan tells him is more than what is likely already circulating through the various counties by word of mouth. What’s most important is the way Piers listens to him and provides little bits of commentary here and there, lips even quirking at the corners into a flighty smile as Raihan regales him with stories of various shenanigans and mishaps. 

They reach the landing of the floor his bedroom is on, and Piers goes in first, opening the doors and crossing automatically to light the candles around his bed and by his desk. Everything is much the same as he left it, the bedclothes smartly turned down and the desk dusted; Raihan feels only contentment as he surveys his space. His maid has kept it for him perfectly, and there’s nothing quite like relaxing after a hard journey. Sighing and finally allowing some of the weight of his tiredness to settle onto his shoulders, he crosses over to his desk and sits down at it to read through his mail, which has been neatly stacked by his ledger. 

Picking up the letter-opener from out of his desk and slipping it under the corner of one envelope, he pauses for a moment as he watches Piers walk down the long hallway that adjoins his bedroom onto his personal bathroom. Considers, for a moment, commanding him to come back and strip naked, damn the bath, he wants the comfort of a soft and warm body to bury himself in while his beloved cries his name in his ear. 

But no—a flick of his wrist follows through the motion and the paper gives, and there’s the clang of the hot water traveling through the pipes and a gush as the tub begins to fill. Patience is a virtue, even if he is not a particularly virtuous man. 

The promise of warm water taking the stiffness out of his muscles and cool fingertips sliding across his skin is enough to temper him, though, and he focuses instead on the letters he’s received. One from Leon, who lives almost permanently in Wyndon and recounts this and that which has occurred since Raihan left, most of which isn’t terribly interesting. One from his cousin, Nessa, who is settling into a most interesting marriage with a pleasant sort of young man who made his money on turning dead land that he’d bought at a pittance into some of the most fertile farming in the country—not an arrangement Raihan would have pictured going well, but according to all of Nessa’s accounts, it’s happier than even she was expecting. He finds himself smiling at her half-masked delight that her young Lord Milo purchased her a house at the seaside as a wedding present. 

The rest of the letters are business related and therefore largely dull, and all of them can wait until tomorrow. No sunken ships, no lost cargo, no tragedy befalling any of his stakes. The water turns off in the other room, and he pretends to still be reading as Piers’ footsteps approach, if only so he can look up when they stop. 

“Yer bath is ready, sire.” 

And now comes one of his favorite parts of the day; he stands, and slips out of his own shoes, before taking a spot by the foot of the bed and waiting patiently as Piers approaches. Off comes his jacket, taken away to be hung on a wooden rack, and then his stickpin is removed and pale fingers undo his tie, casting it down to the bed behind him.

A pause, and those eyes peer up demurely from under dark lashes. Asking, without wanting to ask, and he only nods. Piers moves faster now, but with the practiced grace most valets would envy as he pops open every button on Raihan’s waistcoat, only the curl of his fingertips and the clench of his jaw showing his eagerness. Employing him had required Raihan to learn a whole new language, or so it seemed, because sometimes Piers was so stunningly forward with his thoughts and feelings it was like being slapped in the face, and other times, it required the keenest eye to see the changes in his expression. 

His shirt is tugged away with barely-restrained greed, and then Piers is touching him. Caressing his chest, ever so gently—not anything that could be described as overly erotic, merely sweeping his palms over the muscle of Raihan’s pectorals, then sliding them down his ribs. Toying in the curls of his chest hair, grasping at the muscle of his arms. Touch for touches’ own sake, and Raihan allows his eyes to fall closed as he enjoys the sensation of it. Nothing else in the world quite like being worshipped in this way, and may any gods forgive him for that blasphemy, but he doesn’t intend to take it back. 

Piers unlaces his trousers and underwear, drawing them down and off. Raihan steps out of them neatly, and now he’s completely bare and utterly at ease in his space. Others find nudity distasteful, he knows, but he would be naked much more often if social mores allowed it. Why shouldn’t others look at him, if they enjoy it so much? Piers certainly does; those hands skate across his body once more, this time with the gentleness of one lover enjoying another. _I missed you._

“Shall we?” Raihan opens his eyes as he speaks, and Piers gives another nod before turning back towards the bathroom. There’s also something titillating about being nude while his partner is entirely clothed...and yet, somehow, he still doesn’t feel like the vulnerable one. The thought brings a chuckle to his lips, but he keeps it to himself when Piers glances over.

The tiled bathroom is filled with sweet, fragrant steam when he steps inside, scented with heady roses and spice. Piers takes his place on a small chair beside the tub—Raihan notices that he rocks back and forth on the seat in an interesting way for a moment—and Raihan takes his own in the tub. The water is hot enough to steam but just shy of scalding, and he sighs as it swallows his legs, his chest, and comes all the way up to his neck. It’s like being pleasantly wrapped in an impossibly warm blanket, leaching out all the tension from his muscles and clearing away the grime of the road. 

“Is the water to yer liking, sire?” There’s that sweet accent, he missed it. 

“It’s perfect,” he drawls, and that’s no exaggeration. Heaven itself couldn’t be better than what he feels in this moment. Using a small bowl, Piers scoops up some of the bathwater and pours it down Raihan’s scalp, the heat bleeding into his hair and tingling in long tendrils down the back of his neck. There’s no stopping the blissful, contented sigh that drifts out of him at that, and he wouldn’t want to even if he could. Next Piers lifts up one of his arms and scrubs at it with a damp and soapy cloth, paying special attention to each finger and working back to palm, wrist, up towards the elbow. Every stress and strain Raihan has ever felt is being squeezed out of him, and he feels lighter than air, as though he should be floating on the surface of this bath like a bubble. 

Piers cleans his arms and shoulders, and then there’s a faint rustling and swishing as he prepares some castile soap to wash out his scalp. Not an evening to get into a full hair-washing ritual, but Raihan only stretches back eagerly when he feels Piers’ fingertips working between his locs. Clever fingers work up a lather and Raihan sighs again, almost ready to drift off to sleep as the soothing pressure takes him over. It almost makes going away for an entire month worth it, just to have the pure pleasure of this again when he returns. Though not quite; he’d still prefer to take Piers along with him in the future. When he finds someone suitable to manage things here, of course.

Thoughts of the future with Piers settle into a dreamy haze as those fingers circle around his temple, and the rhythm of Piers’ breathing fills the silence otherwise. There are no worries in this room, nothing to vex or trouble him, nothing but the feeling of his adoring maid slowly tending to every stiff vertebra in his neck with steady, firm circles of his thumbs. Certainly, he had fun with his friends in Wyndon. Drinking and stumbling across ridiculously large estates, dancing in ballrooms and gossiping about one another, eating the finest foods and challenging each other to ridiculous competitions. But this, this is heaven itself. Not a care in the world but for the two heartbeats in this room and the heavy, steamy air between them.

Piers finishes off with another pour of water to rinse the soap off his scalp, and then moves around to the other end of the tub. Raihan lifts his leg out of the water immediately and Piers catches it, washing up around his foot and taking care to massage the arch, then the ball of his ankle. Up along his calf, knee, thigh—he’s rolled up his sleeves, and his pale forearms seem almost bright in the candlelit bathroom. What a pretty maid…

“Still to yer liking?” 

Raihan blinks, realizing that he’d been halfway to dreaming there. “Could only be improved if you were to join me, little one,” he murmurs. 

The spell of master and servant breaks for just a moment, and Piers pauses, fingers resting against one of Raihan’s knees. “Do y’ really want me to—“

Raihan holds up a hand. “No, no. I’ve got other plans for you tonight. But maybe soon...or we could trade positions. You lie back in the tub, and I take my time washing _your_ lovely body.”

Piers’ blush is reward in itself; for all that he makes such an attentive maid, he can be shockingly shy about being attended to himself. 

“Y’know that’s not proper,” he mutters, and Raihan can only give a laugh at that.

“The Piers I hired didn’t give a damn about proper and once called me a ‘swaggering bastard’ to my face,” he reminds, if only to deepen that blush further. 

Piers flicks water at him for his troubles. “And that ya are! I still don’t take it back. Overgrown tree of a man, yer always askin’ the impossible.”

“If everything I want is impossible, then all I have to do is make my fantasies a reality,” he returns. “And what I want is to spend one evening unwrapping you from all those wonderful clothes I’ve provided you with, wash every inch of you, spend an hour worshipping you from head to toe, and look at you when you haven’t an ounce of energy left to feel ashamed at my gaze. You’re beautiful, Piers, and it’s your master’s wish to do such things with you.”

Piers’ mouth opens, then closes again. For all he may protest being told what to do, Piers never denies Raihan’s requests. He might loathe certain forms of authority, but when it comes to Raihan it’s more that he’s...shy, in strange ways, and Raihan fully intends to break down those barriers one at a time. It won’t do to have his maid restraining anything from him.

But for now, the night is getting later and later, and he doesn’t have it in him to stretch those boundaries tonight. 

“Besides, if you cared about proper, I doubt you’d be wearing a skirt and stockings right now—and I doubt you’d give in to my other perversions, either. Much less enjoy them as much as you do.” Piers glares at him, and gives another splash, but Raihan knows that his point has been made. The question isn’t one of propriety, but rather Piers’ own odd embarrassments. 

“Fine, fine, we’re both right twisted creatures. Now lean yer head back, you need a shave something fierce. Starting t’ look like a highwayman yourself,” he shoots back, and comes to take his place once more by Raihan’s shoulder.

More than willing, Raihan closes his eyes and tilts his head back, putting himself fully at the mercy of his little maid. A steaming hot flannel is pressed against his cheeks and he feels his jaw loosen at the pressure of Piers’ fingers massaging through it, his heart already beginning to throb faster until he can hear his own pulse in his ears. No matter, it’s no trouble for a gentleman to hold himself together, even under this sort of treatment. 

Piers removes the cloth with a lingering swipe, and begins to daub oil on with long, cool strokes of his fingers. How they always manage to be so cold is a mystery, yet in the heat of this balmy room, the contrast is nothing short of divine. Breath leaves Raihan’s lungs in a puff, and his next inhale is filled with the scent of cologne mixed in with the oil that softens and prepares his skin for the closeness of the shave. 

One finger, two, slipping down over his jugular with the silken smoothness of the oil guiding the way. If Piers is masterful with anything it’s a touch; Raihan has watched those hands time and again, playing and dancing and moving like two things which live apart from the man himself. Now they stroke down across the curve of his windpipe, excising naught but the most delicate of pressures against it, until the entirety of Piers’ palm rests over his throat. Too poignant to be accidental, yet too gentle to seem on purpose. 

Between heartbeats, Piers’ fingertips tighten, and now he’s the one holding Raihan by the throat. Pinning him in a completely exposed position, bent back and utterly open to him, to the razor, to the cold thousand things he could do with this moment, cruel and kind alike.

It feels blissful. 

Then the world spins again, and Piers releases him like nothing at all happened. No momentary reversal of their roles, just a dedicated servant who would attend to his master’s every need without question. There are no words that need exchanging; the swish of the badger brush against the soap in the shaving cup fills the space between them with the noise of familiar ritual. 

Piers applies the lather to his cheeks, chin, and neck with steady strokes, leaving a pleasant tingle in their wake as the foam settles on his skin. In the brief pause afterwards, Raihan opens his eyes just in time to see the flash of the blade in the candlelight; the upside-down image of Piers unfolding the straight razor and testing it against the back of his own knuckle burning itself onto his eyelids. 

Then those fingers are back, firmly holding him in place even though Raihan would never dream of moving. The only thing that twitches in his throat is his pulse, already rabbiting away before he feels the first stern press of lethal steel to his throat. An even sweep up to the ridge of his chin, then a quick wash of the blade before the next. Each stroke feels as though it’s clearing away days of exhaustion and grime, and Raihan settles back further, trusting his servant’s hands. True, a simple change of angle, a slight adjustment of pressure could have all his life’s blood spilling down to stain the bathwater, but Piers is the only man in this world he trusts completely. Absolutely. 

The razor glides across one of his cheeks, and he swims in silent peace. His body is responding to those skilled fingers, but it’s a distant need, a steady thrum building in his gut as he hardens in the warmth of the bathwater. A delicious sensation that stretches out through his body, a burn he doesn’t mind because he knows it will be sated soon enough. Better to enjoy the build of it with each pass of that razor, and when the last stroke leaves him, another smoothing of the warm flannel before Piers’ fingers are pressing aftershave into his cheeks. The sting nearly makes him hiss, eyes opening once more, and when he’s released he sits up and turns to look over his maid. 

Golden in the candlelight, and still red in the cheeks. Perfect. 

Raihan stands, water sluicing off his body and steam rising from his shoulders, and Piers hands him a towel to pat himself dry with. Other men would wrap it around their waist, or demand a robe, but Raihan is perfectly content to stroll out of the bathroom as nude as when he came in. This time, though, there’s a slight hurry to his maid’s steps, and when they reach the bedroom, Piers peeks back over his shoulder, the only sign of eagerness he’s willing to show. 

“Enough walking away from me. Come here, dammit, I’ve missed you,” he finally says, and just like that, Piers is turning and rushing into his arms. Pressing up onto his toes for a kiss that Raihan falls into eagerly; the show of adherence to their roles was as much an act of petulance as anything and now is dismissed entirely. Piers is so lovely when he admits what he wants, and Raihan gathers his slim body up in his grasp, wrapping one hand around that slender waist to drag him closer as their lips meet. 

What starts off as a deep, passionate welcome-home kiss slowly melts into something filthy as Piers draws Raihan’s tongue between his lips and sucks on it, pulling it into his mouth and humming as Raihan takes control and tastes him thoroughly. How a kiss can be so erotic is still a mystery to Raihan; it’s a skill he learned with delight that Piers already possessed, the first time he finally worked up the nerve for this. His little contrarian, so full of surprises. 

“I can _see_ ya missed me, sire,” Piers purrs against his lips when they break apart, body undulating to press Raihan’s half-hard cock into the lacy front of his uniform. The sensation is nothing but a brief brush of friction, and yet Raihan growls and thrusts his hips forward in agreement. “And how would ya like your service for tonight? On my knees, or…?”

And there it is, that about-face of attitude. When it’s about himself getting attention, Piers is as shy as any maiden, but when he’s the one in control he could make a two-penny whore blush like a schoolgirl. 

Raihan isn’t quite willing to let Piers do as he pleases, though. Not tonight. As much as he loves the wiles and charms of that wry, plush mouth, he would much rather hear his beloved screaming his name tonight and nothing else. “Get on the bed, and flip your skirts up. I want to see what I’ve been so long without,” he commands, and Piers’ demure nod is tempered by the wicked curl of his lips as he clambers onto the bedspread.

There’s a pause, a fluttering of skirts and ruffling of fabric as Piers shoots him another look over his shoulder, this one far less coy, before he bends down to press his chest to the bed and draws the black-and-white hemline up over his waist. So much cloth, but once it’s out of the way, Raihan gives an appreciative groan at the sight of Piers’ pale thighs crossed by black silk garters, a little plumpness ripe at the top of his stockings. Matching underwear completes the look, sheer enough that the shape of his cock is readily visible, but still complementary to the aesthetic. 

For a long moment, Raihan merely takes it all in, stroking himself with a casual palm as he allows his gaze to rove over what belongs to him. Then something catches his attention—through the panties there’s a faint glinting that he’s sure he isn’t imagining, and what he intended to be a casual stroll is more of a stride as he crosses over to the edge of the bed. Piers waits for him, anticipatory but not saying a word until Raihan hooks one finger under the panties and tugs them aside.

And sucks in a stunned breath as his own crest greets him. The dragon’s head he had designed for his estate, cast in silver and set into the hilt of an elegantly curved toy that stretches Piers’ hole out and keeps him plugged. Raihan had gotten this commissioned before he’d gone on his trip, but he’d never actually seen the result. Hadn’t expected to so soon; it’s better than his wildest imaginings. Under his gaze, Piers’ hips shift and his body clenches, the seal practically beckoning until Raihan seizes it with two fingers.

“You were wearing this the whole time?” His voice sounds thick to his own ears, but he can’t mind it. Earns himself another cheeky glance and grin, one that’s sure to be the death of him someday soon.

“I wanted to be ready for you, sire.” From any other voice that would sound saccharine and false, but Piers’ tenor holds a fire that makes it all too real. An inflection of pure desire Raihan can’t resist as he grips the base of the plug tighter, intending to draw it out. 

Except that pink hole clamps tight, and he’s left smirking to himself as Piers lets out a soft, surprised moan. “Relax, little one. It won’t come out if you keep clutching it like that, and I’d rather like to replace it.” Gentle, he moves the plug back and forth, watching in fascination as the muscle stretches. He allows one of his fingertips to brush over the tight rim, coaxing and teasing until it finally gives up the silver a slow inch at a time, even as Piers’ hips stutter. By the time it comes free, his maid is shaking against the sheets, and the erection straining the front of his panties has started to twitch.

“Did you use this while I was gone as well, to satisfy yourself?” The metal is warm in his palm as he examines the plug quickly, checking that the craftsmanship is to the standard he requires, but it’s tossed aside when he slips two fingers into Piers’ heat. Piers chokes at the sensation but Raihan doesn’t give him pause, thrusting with his wrist even as his fingers are clutched and squeezed. He builds a slow rhythm of thrusts with his wrists, marveling at the silken softness inside, the reaction of Piers’ body as it flutters on the new intrusion. Damn, but his maid is responsive, little moans wringing out against the bedsheets.

“I—oh—fuck, I didn’t, it’s not as big as you. Stretches me out but not much else, I needed—“ Piers’ words get lost on another moan as Raihan’s fingers curl down inside him, feeling out for the spot that has those hips thrusting back against him. “I need to be full.”

Those words shoot straight to Raihan’s cock, which is already brushing against the stockinged thighs when he leans close, and making itself more and more insistent with every passing second. “Is that so? Then ask nicely, little maid, and I’ll give you what you’re craving.”

Piers’ head tosses, his hair spilling out onto the sheets like ink and moonlight. Glorious, and all his.

“Don’t make me beg for it, just—god, fuck me already.”

Ah, an angel with a dockworker’s mouth. Raihan considers this entreaty for a moment, and then an idea occurs to him. He pulls his fingers free, and in a single stroke, brings them down hard against Piers’ ass. The pale skin flushes red instantly and Piers keens; the sting of it on his palm is likely nothing to what Piers is feeling now. 

_Punish him. He wants to act like a brat? Show him why you’re the lord of this manor._

The instinct in the back of his head spurs him on and he grips the thin panties with both hands, shredding them open until they hang in tatters around Piers’ waist. His cock bounces free, and Raihan’s spare hand grabs it to stroke even as his other swings another spank just beside one garter. “I know you’re not thinking you can give me orders. You’ll remember whom you serve in this household, even if I have to drill it into your head.”

Another slap and Piers whimpers, sobbing a wet patch into the sheets, but not calling for Raihan to stop. “Troublesome little tart, I’ll fuck you when I please,” he comments, and adds another strike to the other side. “If you want it sooner than that, the least you can do is remember the manners you’ve been taught. Now, ask _properly.”_

There’s a pause and a hiccup as Piers gathers his words, and Raihan gives him a soothing palm over the sore, heated flesh he just abused with the same hand. It takes an awful lot to bend a will as strong as Piers’, but Raihan smiles to himself at the thought that he very well might have accomplished it. His other hand continues to pump Piers’ dick slowly, and he imagines how warm he’ll feel when their hips are finally pressed together. 

“Fuck me...sire...please,” Piers manages, and the tremulous hitch in his voice is enough to send fingers of heat trailing down Raihan’s spine as his control wears thinner.

But not quite enough to make it snap.

“You can do better than that. Who are you asking?” His thumb circles the head of Piers’ cock as he speaks, tormenting a pearly drop of precum from it. 

There’s a moment of hesitation as Piers clings to the last of his willpower, his pride getting in the way of what he wants. Such an unfortunate trait, and Raihan is always trying to break him of it. He traces a fingertip around the rim of Piers’ entrance, and with a shudder, his maid gives in. “You! Please, sire—Lord Raihan, fuck me, I’ve been waiting for you for hours and I need it!” 

He isn’t the only one. Raihan can’t get enough of Piers’ skin, cupping the flesh of his pert ass and spreading him wide, pulse thundering in his ears as he looks his fill. So wet and ready for him to take. He wants this image seared in his memory forever and all time—Piers’ hard cock between his sweetly stockinged legs, his perfect ass framed by the garters and his body open, beckoning. Begging. Even that rosy bruise spreading on either cheek is because of _him_ , Piers is a wrecked, panting mess, wrung out of all his rebellion and propriety alike by Raihan’s touch.

“Please, Lord Raihan...I need you,” Piers repeats, his voice quieter now, and yet there’s a thread running through it that grips Raihan’s instincts and tugs. Not jealousy, no, he isn’t a man to get jealous. Jealousy implies wanting something that doesn’t belong to you, and this belongs all to him. Only him. What hits him now is a heady, potent mix of possessiveness and self-satisfied lust, a craving for all that he owns, all that is spread out beneath him and gasping his name. It’s as dizzying as a shot of strong liquor, but Raihan only finds himself grinning at the burn of it. How intoxicating Piers is. 

But he isn’t about to be rushed in this. No, after a month of waiting, he fully intends to take his time. He’s already played with that waiting hole quite a bit, but he gives it more admiration as he slowly drags his fingertip around the rim, oddly breathless as he watches first one, then two fingers disappear up into Piers to the knuckle in a single wet-hot slide. The rest of the world has vanished into the night, everything pared away to this moment, to the view in his peripheral of thin hands going white at the knuckle as he presses in deep and strokes the spot that has Piers groaning languidly. 

When he pulls his fingers free, he’s sure to spread them on the way out, just to earn himself an extra panting, needy noise. The rim is loose and pink now, shiny and beckoning in a way that has him salivating; another night, perhaps. Maybe when he’s bathed Piers himself, and has all the time in the world to take him apart. For now, he licks his lips and strokes his own cock before sliding the tip up against Piers’ entrance.

The angle almost catches, and they make identical choked noises. Under his breath, Piers’ plea has become a litany, a chanted entreaty of _please_ and _more_ and _Raihan_. He almost wonders if he could mount him just like this, the head of his cock already slipping into that lava heat and being grasped, sucked inside like Piers’ entire body is desperate for it. 

But just when he changes his angle and gives a teasing thrust to slide up between his buttocks, the skirts come loose from where they’ve been rucked up and fall irritatingly over everything. Raihan tries pushing them back, but the voluminous fabric doesn’t want to be contained so easily. Piers curses at having been interrupted like this, and Raihan copies it.

“Ah, damn these skirts! I should cut this dress in half and rend it off your body, then make you walk around and serve the household nude. Maybe leave your hat and stockings, so everyone knows your station.” Piers whimpers at the suggestion, and even though Raihan knows he won’t go that far, the thought of Piers carrying a tea tray in nothing but his shoes, stockings, and hat, perfect body completely on display, pleases him immensely.

Grunting, he pulls himself away from that clinging heat and fumbles at the stays lacing the back of Piers’ dress together. “Off—I want all this off, and then you’ll lie on your back and look me in the eyes while I take you.”

“Wouldn’t be pissed if you cut them off. You’re the one who has to pay for the new set,” Piers grouses as he sits up, hair a riot of black and white around his head. Oh, but his face is prettily wrecked with glassy eyes and little smudges of kohl around them, and Raihan can’t resist leaning over him for another hungry kiss. Loves tasting him too much, loves it when Piers kisses him back like he’s been starving for it just as long. Only after a long minute and one sweetly stinging bite to his lower lip does Piers push him back, shoving him towards the edge of the bed and getting to work on removing his dress. “I believe you know where the oil is kept, _sire_ , and now would be a good time for you to go and fetch it.”

Raihan slides off the bed with a chuckle and amuses himself with casting glances back over his shoulder to watch Piers wrest free of his underskirt as he walks to where the olive oil is kept. Just for this purpose, of course, in a bottle near his dressing table. He picks it up and brings it back, standing at the foot of the bed and watching Piers’ eyes on him as he oils his cock with one lazy hand. Watching his gaze go dark with wanting is delicious, and Raihan takes his time, showing off the length against his palm and dragging it up towards his stomach before Piers fumbles free of the last of his dress and kicks it away towards the edge of the bed.

“Some maid you are, causing such a mess,” he teases, and only gets a rude look in return. But when Piers falls back against the bed, hair haloing out around him, the lustful look returns and Raihan climbs onto the bed again, walking on his knees until he can grip the tender spot at the inside of Piers’ knee and toss his thighs open. 

They spread so willingly, and are far too bare. He’ll have to cover them in his marks and love-bites again quite soon. But right now, even his desire to tease this out further is waning. He lets Piers see his body, look at him as he stalks over the smaller man and cages him in with his arms, until he’s covered completely. He dips his head and claims another kiss, then a bite at the side of Piers’ pale throat, and a suckle of his pink, hardened nipples. Divine. 

Two fingers find the slick entrance and line the head of his cock up with it, finally, _finally_ ready to sink inside. Raihan can’t breathe, his chest tight as he presses in, gripping one of Piers’ slender hips in either hand and dragging him up and back until he impales every last inch of that tight heat. And god, but Piers is painfully tight. So small, it doesn’t matter how many times Raihan fucks him, it’s always a glove’s fit. Stilling the urge to roll his hips until Piers is adjusted to the huge cock now filling him to the brim, Raihan kisses instead at one earlobe, pierced through with a thin silver hoop that matches the ones in his nipples.

“Raihan...move, please,” Piers murmurs, voice rough after a long moment. He starts slow, pulling back until just the head of his cock is still lodged in Piers’ body, and then thrusts in with a smooth downward roll of his hips. One of the most enjoyable aspects of possessing so many delightful things in his life is getting to luxuriate in them, and he’s doing nothing but as he fucks Piers with steady, deep thrusts. 

The even tempo has Piers’ back arching up until he’s meeting Raihan thrust for thrust, hips driving himself back onto Raihan’s cock until Raihan has to catch them and hold him still. One leg hitches up over his elbow, then the other, and soon he’s got his little maid folded in half, staring down at that flat stomach and groaning every time he sees the head of his cock bulge through it. So fucking full, and yet Piers only moans for it, a mixture of colorful cusses and broken-off pleas, praises for the feeling of Raihan inside him. 

_Sire, yes—oh, fuck me hard, you feel so good this deep, I needed this, I need you Raihan—_

He cradles Piers’ body beneath his own, thrusts shortening until he’s driving his cock in with sharp, hungry slams of their hips. “I know, angel, I’ve got you...I’ll give you everything you need,” he promises into Piers’ ear, even as the pace turns punishing and rough. Those sweet noises ring higher and higher until they’re getting lost in the canopy of his bed, Piers’ gorgeous voice gone rough with sex, and Raihan drinks in every last sound. His own breath is caught tight in his chest, a few murmured praises falling from his lips as he loses himself in the taking. 

Mouth and teeth and tongue, the scent of Piers’ hair and the tenderness of skin at the hollow of his throat; Raihan revels in every last inch. Piers’ sharp nails bite rivulets into the skin of his back, dragging out long red marks that are sure to last to the morning, the pain only driving him higher as he slams home. Raihan’s control is dwindling but he allows it, not fighting as that primal urge for dominance rises in his chest. Piers missed him? Needs him? He’ll give him anything and everything. His fingers tighten their grip to bruising, and he feels the air leaving Piers’ lungs on each thrust. 

Every time with Piers is more pleasurable than the last, and the feeling of the inside of his body gripping tight as his ecstasy builds is like nothing else in this world. Raihan knows he’s smiling giddily against the side of Piers’ neck even as he plunges in again and again, intent on driving his maid to the wildest orgasm he’s ever experienced. “Come for me,” he growls harshly against the shell of an ear, snapping his hips forward even as Piers undulates into them with fierce energy. The whine at the back of his throat is knocked out in a long moan, punctuated by the pounding of the headboard against the wall. No matter. “I can feel this sweet body milking me, Piers—fuck, you’re close, come for your lord—“

And, like a good maid, Piers obeys him. His body convulses, arching hard as Raihan seats himself fully inside, spearing Piers on his cock as those slender legs straighten and tremble violently. Thick spurts of cum splash up to his chest, coating his belly as his back lifts from the bed and a wail of Raihan’s name breaks out of his throat. He’s a vision as he spills himself, cock pink and thick against his stomach, his entire body bowed with pleasure as his insides grip like a hot, slick fist. Raihan fucks him through it, until Piers goes limp beneath him, the mess already starting to spread and drip down onto sheets that will need to be stripped and washed tomorrow. 

Not that Raihan stops himself. Piers must be oversensitive, with the blush now reaching his chest and his breath sawing in and out, but Raihan doesn’t have the control left to rein it in. He only grips harder at a sweat-slicked thigh, his own nails leaving crescents on pale skin, hips snapping forward beyond his control. 

“Raihan, inside me...I want to feel it inside me, fill me,” Piers mutters in his ear, arms coming up to clutch at Raihan’s shoulders with a shocking strength, shoving his face into the crook of a slender throat. That gesture, those words, they’re what sends Raihan over the edge and he cums with a brutal snarl, teeth sinking into the flesh just under his mouth. A heavy thrust sinks his cock in to the very hilt and each pulse shoots in deeper, wringing a shiver from his body as he leaves a bruising, heavy mark on Piers’ collarbone. Pleasure erases every last thought from his mind, until he’s giving Piers everything he has, filling him up to the brim and feeling his own cum slip back out. Heat sings through every vein, and pure, primal satisfaction as he drives Piers down into the mattress and finishes pouring inside with a rush of delight.

Finally, when his ears are finished ringing, Raihan collapses onto Piers and takes a moment to gasp for breath. He rolls to the side as soon as he can manage it, hand hooked under Piers’ waist to bring him along, loath to pull out before he’s ready. No, he needs to spend another few minutes in that perfect heat, savoring the way Piers’ insides are sticky and drenched with him, even as his other senses slowly return. They’re wet, sweat-covered and messy, and another bath would likely be ideal, but he doesn’t have the strength. Piers’ fingers tangle in his hair, gentle nails scratching at his scalp, bringing him down from the height of his pleasure. 

After a long moment, he reluctantly pulls free of that perfect heat, and sighs as he slips from the bed. Piers’ eyes are still dazed, wondering, and Raihan soothes him by brushing back some hair that stuck to his damp face. There’s a clean towel to wipe himself off first, and then another wet cloth to tend to his maid, spreading thighs gone weak with pleasurable exhaustion, and the satisfaction of watching his own mess spill back out. Piers doesn’t say anything, only grips at his shoulder, but Raihan presses a kiss to his hipbone before discarding of the cloth and falling into bed beside him. 

Piers is slim against him in the darkness, but fits against every crevice of his body like they were made to be together. With the drumming of his heart and the rasp of his breath in his ears, Raihan falls asleep.

——

Raihan wakes to the sunlight filtering in through a gap in his heavy curtains and trickling across the bed, disappointed to find it empty but for him and the sheets gone cold. Ah well, likely that Piers woke early with some duty to attend to...he sighs, slowly drawing himself up to rest against the headboard. There’s a pleasant ache in his back and his shoulders still sting from Piers’ nails raking them, and he can take enough satisfaction in knowing the pleasure he brought him. Reaching beside his bed, he finds the braided pull-cord to ring downstairs for breakfast, and gives it a tug before sighing back into the sheets. 

He cracks a wide yawn, jaw popping faintly, and stretches his arms above his head to enjoy the morning. Not a particularly early riser, but business often begins early, and it’s time to greet the day. Letters to write, accounts to manage. One knuckle wipes the sleep from the corner of his bleary eyes, and he straightens up when he hears footsteps outside the door.

“Come in,” he intones, getting ready to pull back the covers and stand. All of his servants have seen him naked at one time or another, and he’s not particularly ashamed of it, especially if they’ll be dressing him. 

But when the door swings open, it’s Piers who stands there, carrying a silver tray laden with eggs and bacon and breakfast foods, and a blessedly large jug of coffee. 

And not a stich on otherwise, except—yes, his hat and stockings and little leather shoes. Raihan’s jaw drops, and Piers saunters into the room, setting the tray across his lap and balancing the legs carefully. 

“I believe this is what Your Lordship requested last night, was it no’?” The words sound so innocent, and yet Raihan can’t stop looking. He really walked down the halls of this manor like that…?

Piers snorts, and tosses some of his hair back over a bony shoulder. “I’ve dismissed the other servants for the day, if that’s what yer wondering. They’ll come back in the evening for supper, but now it’s just you an’ me an’ breakfast,” he says with a smirk, cheekily reaching out to steal a slice of Raihan’s bacon and crunch down on it with obvious pleasure.

Raihan feels an overwhelming wave of fondness wash over him, even as his cock stirs in anticipation of getting to enjoy his maid all over again. Those long, gorgeous legs...but even more, the fact that Piers thought to indulge his playful whims, and to make him the breakfast that he loves. The sensuality, but also the care of this, they strike him to the core and when he reaches for Piers’ wrist, he tugs him close only to hold around his waist. 

“I do adore you, you know,” he murmurs against the soft skin of Piers’ belly, when he leans forward to press his face into it. There’s a faint chuckle from above, and cool fingers in his hair. 

“Aye, I guessed as much. Have a bit of care for you too, sire,” Piers murmurs, even as he twists to move the tray back so Raihan can pull him into bed once more. 

“Welcome home.”


End file.
